The Adventure of the Honored Guest
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: oneshot. "I write this for my own benefit, and for the sake of having a constant reminder of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, and one of his most glaring faults. I mean, of course, his complete inability to meld into society beyond his work as a detective"


**This is my first time even attempting to write anything Sherlock Holmes, although I believe I've spent enough time reading the stories and novels to have a vague grasp of the characters. Nevertheless, I hope this came out alright. As always, reviews are thoroughly loved, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**Of course, I own absolutely nothing relating to Sherlock Holmes, besides an undying love for literature.

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**_The Adventure of the Honored Guest_**

I do not expect that the following recollection shall ever be released to the public, for I'm afraid there was very little mystery involved, and the only exciting chase that occurred was brief and quite anticlimactic. My concern of having to contend with an irate detective should the following become common knowledge is, as well, a highly unpleasant notion. In fact, I write this for my own benefit, and for the sake of having a constant reminder of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, and one of his most glaring faults. I mean, of course, his complete inability to meld into society beyond his frequent walks about London and his required interactions with clients during cases.

It began in May of 1888, when my friend solved a fairly simple case involving a missing diamond ring belonging to Mrs. Lucy Abbott, and despite her rather extensive thanks, it left our minds entirely within mere days. Holmes, in his typical manner, pressed on to his next challenge, and it was for the most part lost among the many more interesting mysteries that were presented in due time.

It was quite unexpected therefore, that on July the fifth of the same year, I should have been standing before the fire arguing with Holmes over the very same case. More specifically, over whether or not he would be expected to attend a ball that was, to his intense chagrin, being held specifically in his honor. It seemed that our dear Mrs. Abbott had enough connections to create an overwhelming list of past clients that felt this was the best way to express their appreciation.

Clearly, none of them knew Sherlock Holmes very well at all.

"Watson," His tone was particularly icy as he fiddled with the strings of his violin. "I have a very long and detailed list of reasons as to why I am not, under any circumstances, attending this blasted _dance_." He turned his body slightly away from me and continued plucking at the strings. It seemed, by the set in his jaw and the determined gleam in his eyes, that it would take a team of wild horses to haul him into such a 'frivolous gathering of dancing bodies'.

As it were, I would have stopped my insisting at that moment, realizing the hopelessness of my cause. Yet this was no ordinary evening, and whether Holmes enjoyed the fact or not, he was the guest of honor. It would be absolutely insulting if he did not even deign to make an appearance at his own ball. I held out a hand as imploringly as I could. "Holmes, by reasonable. You are _expected_ to attend! If only for a quarter of an hour!"

My friend turned his head ever so slightly, allowing me to view his profile, illuminated by the fireplace. "It starts as a quarter of an hour, but the process of _leaving_ takes several at best. I absolutely refuse to partake in it, Watson, and that is final." He promptly began to draw the bow across the strings, playing a slow piece that had a particularly menacing edge.

I had no choice then but to sigh at his confounded stubbornness. I spent several moments mulling it over in my mind, considering the few times Holmes had ever deigned to go to any social gathering beyond what was required of him. The list of occasions was depressingly short, and comprised almost entirely of meetings with small groups of men. He certainly had never expressed any inclination towards large gatherings, particularly any which involved dancing. I looked up from my musing to see that he had relaxed slightly, as shown by the less intimidating tune of his violin. "Well, old boy. Whether you care to attend or not, I intend to." I glanced at my watch and sighed with relief. There were still several hours left before the ball began. More than enough time to dress myself at leisure.

My friend looked up from his playing abruptly and set the instrument down on his lap, turning in his chair to look at me incredulously. "Why the _deuce_ would you want to attend?" He demanded. I was rather taken aback by the question, but cleared by throat and answered nonetheless.

"I assured Mrs. Abbott that we would both be in attendance. I intend to keep at least _half _of my promise to the poor woman." I must admit that, with my old injuries having a tendency to ache with any great deal of excursion, I certainly would make my appearance a brief one.

Holmes, as was ever his fashion, noticed the slight twitch of my expression and responded. "Yet you don't want to. Your leg will be murder by the third dance." His lips twitched very briefly into a tight smile. "Watson, old boy, you would do well to learn how to decline a lady's request."

I stiffened at his barb, as well as the expression that was quickly crossing into the realm of condescension. "At the very least, I am enough of a gentleman to make a short appearance. Why, I can only imagine the hostess' embarrassment when her honored guest refuses to attend." It was, perhaps, an uncalled for insult upon his nature, which, while blunt and cold, and often inhumanly systematic, could never be called cruel, but it was quite true. Mrs. Abbott would be a laughing stock if my friend was not compelled to show his face at her ball.

"Watson, I believe that is very close to blackmail."

"I believe you should attend for all of fifteen minutes to save the woman some humiliation."

He turned away with a frustrated huff that gave me hope for victory yet. "If she isn't embarrassed today, no doubt she shall be tomorrow." Holmes insisted vaguely. "These sorts of gatherings always inspire gossip and rumors, after all."

He set down the violin, leaning it against his chair. A further sign that he was possibly reconsidering. "At the very least, old boy, any humiliation after tonight won't fall on your head." I pointed out with much higher hopes than ten minutes ago. "I assure you, Holmes. In and out. Just make your presence known for a span of time."

The detective gave a tremendous sigh then, an expulsion of air that seemed remarkably loud within the sitting room. His eyes remained focused on the fire, and he hunched over in a position reserved for considerable thought. Seconds evolved into minutes, and when he finally came out of his own mind I had relocated to my desk and was engrossed in detailing one of our many adventures. The sound of his return to life made me turn in my chair, and to my extreme delight Holmes had an expression upon his face that was as close to a pout as his pride would allow.

"Fifteen minutes, Watson, and not a second more!" He stood up and stretched, looking quite similar to a trained athlete preparing for an event. "Now where the deuce is my jacket?"

He dove into his room and in spite of myself I chuckled at his behavior.

"I heard that!" His voice trailed into the sitting room as the sounds of his living space being torn apart in the hunt for the only tailcoat I believe he has any interest in owning increased.

I chuckled again and returned to my writing, but not before returning his call. "You heard nothing, Holmes!"

His blatant curse on whoever had decided to make guests of honor required to attend 'the blasted dancing party' transformed my quiet chuckle into a full laugh, in reply to which a left shoe of unknown origin whistled across the sitting room towards my head.

* * *

By the time our hansom had arrived at the hall, Holmes was already grumbling and tugging at his collar with a distinctly unhappy expression. I, for one, was feeling rather excited about the prospects of the evening, and perhaps rather amused by my friend's grousing. Any other man may have found Holmes' behavior unappealing, but knowing him so well as I did, I found it more entertaining than frustrating.

The fact that he was even attending was more than enough for me.

After the cab left, Holmes turned to look at me with a very sour face indeed. I, of course, took the liberty to appear as serious and somber as I could, though I'm certain by his darkening expression that I did a rather poor job of it. Nevertheless, he drew himself up, surveyed the building with his scrutinizing gaze, and eventually remarked to me that he would hold me personally accountable for every mishap he would no doubt have to endure.

I agreed quite solemnly before allowing myself to laugh. His lips, which seemed to have become perpetually downturned, abruptly reversed their ways and Holmes chuckled along as we walked arm in arm towards the door.

It is a great shame that it was to be that Sherlock Holmes spent the remainder of the night wavering between disgust, unhappiness, and complete horror.

It began the moment we entered the hall, which had been decorated lavishly for the affair. After moving past the cloak room, it seemed our good luck(and spirits) were to be efficiently crushed. It was at the very moment, in fact, that we entered the main area of the hall, where couples were already moving about to the quadrille band. Miss Lucy Abbott, a slight woman that looked to be much quieter than she truly was, came bustling over, accompanied by a tall, rakish man whom I perceived to be Mister Abbott. Her vast ball gown of a brilliantly light shade of lilac seemed to coordinate with the decorated hall quite perfectly, though Mister Abbott appeared to have some trouble in avoiding its hem as they walked. Nevertheless, they seemed positively giddy over our appearance, and though Holmes shirked away from the loud, boisterous tones of Mrs. Abbott, I found the experience worth its weight in sheer hilarity.

"Mister _Holmes_! Oh, I knew you would show up eventually!" She beamed, apparently not at all aware of my companion's glowering gaze that was aimed towards me. "And Doctor _Watson_! I am absolutely honored that you joined us!" In one move she hauled her husband closer to us, which may have started me chuckling had I not had better self control. "I would like to introduce my husband, Arthur."

The required niceties were exchanged, and much to my dear friend's chagrin he hadn't yet managed to sneak away. It seemed that it was not to be, for at that moment Mrs. Abbott let loose a crow of delight not entirely unlike Holmes when he was on an elusive scent. "Oh, you're both just in time for dinner! You simply _must_ sit beside us, you know. You must have so many terrific stories to share, Mister Holmes."

I must confess that I felt a certain amount of irritation at that, for if anyone was willing to share stories of our many adventures, it was me above my friend who appeared to be contemplating the idea of turning back around. Yet I was slightly mollified when Holmes grabbed my arm in a pincer grip as we were led on a parade into the dining room, which was an expansive area decorated with similar colors to the outside.

We were, as was expected, made to sit directly beside Mister and Mrs. Abbott at the head of the vast table, and before long it seemed Holmes was making his typical mark on the guests with his deductive powers. By the time we had gotten through the delicious main course, he appeared to be warily pointing out very small observations that seemed to astonish our hosts and their guests beyond the normal realms of his ability.

Typically, I imagine Holmes may have enjoyed the great gasps of amazement he was inducing, but at the moment he seemed far too preoccupied in misery from even being there to care.

"It's quite simple, Mrs. Abbott," I heard him say for what may have been the twentieth time. "By the slight tear in the uppermost corner of the banner, as well as the scratch mark on the wall, I can quite easily deduce that whoever was decorating your hall had the misfortune of standing on a ladder which was destined to fall." He poked several carrots around his untouched plate, looked at me significantly, and made to stand up. "I would truly adore staying longer, but Watson and I have quite a lot of work left to—"

Holmes looked positively irate when Mr. Abbott held up a hand in protest. "If you would simply wait five minutes, Mister Holmes, I imagine our guests are quite expecting to hear you speak." My eyes, at this, widened quite on their own and I coughed into a napkin as Holmes took on a very rare expression of complete shock. He abruptly turned to me for assistance, but I was preoccupied with clearing my throat.

Although I had always known Holmes to enjoy giving vivid speeches to the inspectors of Scotland Yard, I don't believe he was nearly so enthusiastic to address a room of formally dressed individuals, many of whom had been clients once upon a very long time ago. When I had managed to regain control of myself, I turned to watch my dear friend as he continued to sit with an expression that I shall always treasure as the first in which I had seen such shock and, dare I say, horror written upon his normally blank visage.

"Really, Mister Abbott, you're much too kind but—" I began, before Holmes interjected.

"I'm flattered, I assure you, but I simply couldn't—"

"He's had no time to prepare, you see—"

"I wouldn't know what the devil to—'

"Perhaps it would be best if we—"

"Just left." We finished together, exchanging a hopeful expression that was quashed, for Abbott was already on his feet and drawing attention, introducing Holmes to the crowd, many of whom applauded politely at his mention.

"And now, I believe, Mister Holmes would like to say a few words."

It seemed that, true to his nature, by the time the detective stood, he had all the level headed calm of a practiced politician. I watched, feeling that sense of awe that my friend had a gift of bestowing upon me, as he seemed to formulate the proper words. After a moment's pause, Holmes began to speak.

"I am extremely glad that you all could attend this evening," He announced, as if it had been his intention from the beginning to stand before them. "It has been my privilege and honor to assist many of you in the past," Someone inserted a 'here here' at this point, which was followed by several others, and I saw Holmes' hands twitch behind his back. "And I shall be more than willing to aid even more of you in the future, if need be."

He seemed to hesitate there, and I took the initiative to poke my elbow into his thigh, urging him to continue. For a half second our eyes met, and when he returned to addressing the group, a very small smile was on his lips.

"I have found great pleasure in aiding you to the ends of your assorted mysteries," He said with a flourish that spoke more of his character than anything I had seen thus far in the evening. "Be it missing rings, missing friends, or even murder." Holmes hesitated again, encouraging another nudge on my part. "And so I sincerely hope that you all have a delightful evening…" He seemed at a bit of a loss for an ending. "And thank you."

There was applause around the table, and Holmes sank back into his seat with a blank expression as the pairs began to make for the ballroom again. He glanced at me and scowled. "This is entirely all your fault, _Boswell_." He muttered. "One of those _gentlemen_ took advantage of their distraction to steal a silver spoon, as well."

"Come now, Holmes!" I exclaimed, still quite amused by the events of the evening. "That was a marvelous speech, old boy!" I stood then an offered him a hand, which he promptly ignored in favor of helping himself up. "Shall we join the festivities?"

His expression of complete disbelief was enough inspire more giddiness on my part. "Surely you jest." He complained. "I am returning to Baker Street and there is nothing on this Earth that shall stop me."

It turned out, of course, that Holmes was made to endure seemingly endless interruptions before he could get to the door. It allowed me, in fact, more than enough time to engage in three dances, returning just in time to see that my friend had gotten himself in a rather tight spot, with three different ladies vying for either a story, a conversation, or a dance, no request of which he appeared at all willing to acquiesce.

Perhaps it was bad taste on my behalf, but I was rather content to leave him to his troubles by requesting a dance with a passing woman. It would do the reclusive detective no harm to engage the fairer sex in five minutes of small talk, let alone if some damsel ever managed to coerce him to engage in such 'foolishness' as dancing.

As it were, I was only just returning from my own good time when I saw Holmes streaking towards me with a thunderous expression. He grabbed my arm in passing and quite dragged me along, for my leg had, as he predicted, begun to hurt fiercely. "Holmes! Slow down, man, what the devil is this rush about?"

He cast an eye around as we weaved through the dancing couples. "Mrs. Abbott seems quite determined to make me engage in this Godawful act." He explained tersely. "Therefore, I am playing the part of the rabbit and I intend to return to my hole and as you won't be dancing," He sneered at the very word, "very much more on that leg of yours, I think you shall be quite amiable in joining me, Watson. Come along now, she could be anywhere."

So ended the Adventure of the Honored Guest. When we returned to our rooms, Holmes made a very deliberate point of mentioning that our quarter-hour appearance had been multiplied by fourteen. He then proceeded to smoke his very smelliest tobacco until I was forced to retreat to my bed. He then continued to make an equally pointed attempt to interrupt any sleep I might have hoped to achieve by alternating between target practice with _my_ revolver and playing every tune on his violin that he knew I had come to truly loathe. It was only when Mrs. Hudson flew up the stairs and berated him for five minutes on the appalling noise that he stopped.

Even then, he spent the rest of his evening alternating between incessantly rapping on my door to keep me awake, to very loudly and critically insulting 'those absolutely dreadful, romanticized pieces of drivel that you consider to be representations of my work'.

Yet, even as I suffered his pettiness throughout the night, I found a great deal of solace(which I must confess became a rather vengeful pleasure as he continued his childish disturbances) that Sherlock Holmes, for all his genius and deductions, was very much human, and very far from perfect.


End file.
